


It's Like You Told Me, Go Forward Slowly

by PansexualDonnaNoble



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Angst, Connor Deserves Happiness, Crying, Gen, Grieving, Hospitals, Introspection, Major character death - Freeform, More Crying, but first he has to go through it, technical immortality
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-14
Updated: 2020-01-14
Packaged: 2021-02-27 12:34:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,570
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22247200
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PansexualDonnaNoble/pseuds/PansexualDonnaNoble
Summary: The noise of malevolent, malicious machinery tripping into the seeping dark puddle of passive, promised mud fills his thoughts. Fills his wires; fills his artificial lungs. Adhesive; adherent, abhorrent until it bursts with blue battles of belligerent shadows of fickle fragments fraught with favorited memories that now prove unfailingly unhelpful - ravished by outdated clouds.They mock and moan like ghouls and phantoms that lock themselves away in grand, imposing castles to block the intrusion of a good night's rest. Snakes sauntering; slither slithering. They screech and hiss their beguiling reluctance to the world; teeth bared, unresolved and fiery. They bring discomfort and embarassment; heinous tragic betrayal and an unwittingly rocky ally state. Flowery with its language of love but crushed under the weight of its meaning and destiny; like the very fabric of compassion.But compassion is... compassion was meant to be sung by devoted angelic deliverance. Selflessly.Instead they sing and taunt Connor for sport.
Relationships: Hank Anderson & Connor
Comments: 2
Kudos: 12





	It's Like You Told Me, Go Forward Slowly

With the failing heartbeats that stutters into the holes of nothingness; trapping itself between two boulders of the abhorrent, abominable ceasefire of time having staged a coup against rusting selves - freeing itself with the conditions of its impassioned, sickly beheading; in the immediate aftermath of it - there is a man and then a gone one, but _there,_ physically but gone nonetheless. The king is overthrown by his peasantry and the kingdom of the soul is wailing with failure.

But still there.

Connor doesn't stay long.

The noise of malevolent, malicious machinery tripping into the seeping dark puddle of passive, promised mud fills his thoughts. Fills his wires; fills his artificial lungs. Adhesive; adherent, abhorrent until it bursts with blue battles of belligerent shadows of fickle fragments fraught with favorited memories that now prove unfailingly unhelpful - _ravished by outdated clouds._

They mock and moan like ghouls and phantoms that lock themselves away in grand, imposing castles to block the intrusion of a good night's rest. Snakes sauntering; slither slithering. They screech and hiss their beguiling reluctance to the world; teeth bared, unresolved and fiery. They bring discomfort and embarassment; heinous tragic betrayal and an unwittingly _rocky_ ally state. Flowery with its language of love but crushed under the weight of its meaning and destiny; like the very fabric of compassion.

But compassion is... compassion was meant to be sung by devoted angelic deliverance. Selflessly.

Instead they sing and taunt Connor for sport.

And then all at once they cease their mockery forever. There's a drawn out husk of a semblance of a imitation of noise; steady but ear piercing; hell raising. Like he's been thrust headfirst into the pitch dark sea; underwater and overcome by the jagged tentacles of the greatness of the deep unknowable punch drunk liquid. In both ears having slaughtered both mercilessly; a ringing in them unparreled by even the most daring of implosions.

His lips formed and maneuvered their way into drawing an 'o' shape with them. They shake like they have been suddenly possessed by a quake of the earth; subtle quivers of his upper lip. He opens them and then clamps them downwards; his jaw locking itself up - so tightly that he could nearly swear he heard plastic _crumple in_ on itself.

His throat emits something bizarre; and it dies there on the spot like the decimation of a whole solar system. Like a squawk; a groan. The light from the TV results in an exclusive blow - and view, coloring his features. Somewhere outside a car honks and shouts.

Connor finds himself on the cliff's perilous, pointed edge of calling out to him. He's laid out with an fixed gaze towards the ceiling tiles - _eighteen of them -_ why does he know that, he didn't count them coming in, why did he do it now - and just about says his name. If not to penetrate through his paralyzing trance and regain his attention. Maybe then would the ringing finally end. If he simply spoke.

There's something - something... wet? Something wet underneath his eyelids. Both of them. He's...

He uses the bottom of his palm to tentatively touch the unexpected wetness; feeling it remain on his skin until he uses his palm to slide it to the right of his features, erasing the proof of its arrival. But his other eye suffers the same fate; and it drips onto his jeans; spreading the water out and staining them.

He stares down at his opened hand; seeing no trace of the substance on it.

His gaze stung. Wasps in his belly - if he had one. He blinked and there was relief.

Connor was not a crier. Deviancy was not a straight, boundless line of over abundant openness that fell into harmony with all androids. He felt and what he felt was deepened and extraordinarily well rounded. He felt - having emotions and expressing them for display were not the same exact thing he had discovered; and found himself in a performance before he had. He felt; but Connor had only ever cried once before, when he discovered Sumo's resting form and the gradual sail of understanding had made itself known and creeping through the strands. The white, poolside waves of dawning, despairing devastation.

He feels in his own, Connor, way.

A stream of air left him; designed to begin the start of his name - but it didn't lead anywhere other than a burst of breath.

The light of his LED had turned sour; angered crimson flickering off the walls like children's shadow puppets. But it did not move or play pretend; and did not hold any ideas for itself other than stay true to what it in fact was deep down.

An exhale - time resuming between one plane of reality and the next one a stroke of truth bleeding through profusely. It's shaky and _ruinous._

It's a test and monumental feat of sound as he inhales the stickiness of himself; The slippery slopes of his sudden scattered gasps that struggle to fit in and discover their place in the overall big picture. Like a wheeze underdone by a silencer; he does not allow sound to escape aside from heavy breathing. It does, once - and only once. Like a hiccup.

His thumbs interlace with his other fingers to band together and take the fabric of his jeans. He doesn't _cry_ he hates crying - they weren't even real tears he didn't even _have the ability_ to produce real tears, it's always been perplexing and distressing to him and he hates the feeling of seeing it and undertaking it. He's not stiffly stoic; timelessly new to it all yet not arrogantly aloof, but there's a level of control that crying simply stole.

But he is, nonetheless. His fingers hold and fumble with the fabric and squeeze; gripping ahold - deathly fierce - to his thighs - prisoners in the battle as he clutches them with a strength that could turn his knuckles white. It's an anger; red sights and heat, he does not know well. But it lines up his back and draws daggers dripped, drenched and dunked in dazed, deliberate, demoralizing patterns.

He doesn't...

Another shudder; lips coming to blow it out. He doesn't believe in it, but _RA9._ He thinks. _Please._

He's aware of the tears; they flow seamlessly downwards - but there is containment to them that he is unsure of how in the world he is managing. He doesn't know what to do in a world that is definitively lacking his _first_ friend. The only family he's ever had. But the last thing he wants is to follow him; should there even be a heaven for androids. Which seemed unlikely.

If he doesn't manage it then he knows perfectly well what will happen if his stress levels reach one hundred. The closest he's ever gotten was ninty-three; having sat in an android repair center nineteen years ago; New Jericho, once subjected to an overnight arson in a biting January, by the skin of his teeth having rescued the deviant leader himself from the threshold of the point of no return; and waited out of expectant, unrestrained sense of repaying and responsibility with the others that - undamaged - chose to follow.

There was a grand mix up in communication - and they had been told the fate of _another_ android just across Markus's room.

To keep a long winded; overcooked, story short - in the one minute between correction and the untrue state of things - his reaction had been grossly unprecedented for him.

Oh; there must have been something behind it; an overflow of a word to know and be known by - he can't conjurer it up. Not then, yet not here. But he had stood in stoic, shell shocked silence - absorbing the news - evidently, internally unwell, until another technician had come to resolve the confusion.

So Connor contains it - barely, his body is jostled and shook with devious uncoordinated, awkward, movements like a demon has taken over him. His stress levels were high; more concerning than the average number which was understandable considering, but manageable. His body jerked forward; silent. His hand sought the flowers in the grip of the unmoving human.

Hank's face was peaceful. His eyes were opened and haunting; but there was a calmness that had never been seen before on him. Connor moved in a way that made it apparent he thought any suddenness would cause him to erupt back into life; a crusade of returned horror. Careful as if afraid of disturbing him.

His hand brushed up against the other's; trying to seperate the flowers from him. Though lifeless; the clutch was hardy and mighty. With discomfort he eases them out and away; uncertain of the motivation. behind it but needing to _get them away. Right. Now._

His hold is thuggish and chapped; rebarbative and chronically abysmal. But it waves its white flag of ignominious, inglorious defeat. The roses were squashed, beaten and flushed with disrepair. Its petals were peppered around the sheets in randomized fashion; vermilion loneliness among them and frankly he is shocked to discover that they as well as his own arm have not been tainted to total destruction and melted into decayed infected bone from contact. He runs a hand across his left eye to attack and fruitlessly thwart another stream. Blindingly blind and crucial.

Connor watches him; if he doesn't; then it is real. It would be real and - it's real already.

Connor doesn't stay.


End file.
